Secrets
by amyxaphania
Summary: Buffy thought she was in a happy, successful relationship. But when her ex-boyfriend presents her with evidence that Spike might be having an affair, her world shatters around her. When she confronts him, does she get the answer she’s expecting? AU.
1. Chapter One

**A/N: **Huge thanks to Sotia for beta-reading and to Chantel for helping me with the summary and title. *hugs*

**Secrets**

**Chapter One**

"I've had enough." Buffy dropped a pile of envelopes onto Angel's desk, then sat down in the plush leather chair opposite him.

Angel didn't meet her eyes, keeping his gaze focused on his computer screen. Every so often he clicked the mouse and typed something on the keyboard. "I don't know what you mean."

"The notes. The cryptic text messages. The mysterious e-mails from a Mr. Anonymous." Buffy opened one of the envelopes and pulled out a sheet of paper. "This is your handwriting. I know it's you, Angel. I want you to stop."

Angel sighed, and stopped typing. "I really don't know what you're talking about, Buffy."

"Is this some residual jealousy thing?" she asked. "I thought you were past that. You're happy with Cordelia now, right? So why are you doing this?"

"Fine, you caught me. I just don't want you to be hurt," Angel sounded sincere. He rifled through the envelopes until he found one labelled _Wednesday 15th October_. "I do still care about you."

"As a friend."

"Of course." Angel placed a piece of notepaper in front of her.

"Then, as my friend, you should know that what you're doing is only upsetting me." Buffy looked at what was written on the paper, and shrugged. "This doesn't mean anything to me. It doesn't prove anything."

_Wed. 15th Oct  
Arrived Behan's Bar (B&B rooms to hire), 1.45 p.m.  
Left Behan's Bar, 6.00 p.m. — over 4 hours!  
Drove to area just south of Linfield Park. Too risky to follow._

"It doesn't mean anything on its own, but you're not that naïve. Look at the rest of them." Shuffling through the envelopes, Angel pulled out pieces of paper with various dates and times on them, names of out-of-town restaurants and bars with hotel rooms attached. And several visits to somewhere just south of Linfield Park.

Buffy stared at the words blankly, refusing to believe what she knew Angel wanted her to think. "No. It doesn't mean anything."

"For God's sake!" Angel stood up, his sudden movement making the wheels on his chair squeak loudly. "Are you that stupid?"

"Why are you doing this? I can't believe you had him followed." Buffy stood up too, and began to push the papers together into a pile, her hands shaking. "That's just… sad. We broke up six fucking years ago, Angel. You don't get a say in my life anymore!"

"I'm just trying to help you!" Angel took a deep breath, then continued, more calmly. "You're a clever girl, Buff. All the evidence is there. Do with it what you will."

Buffy shook her head. "Shut up. Don't come near me, and if you send me any more of these stupid messages, I'll report you to head office for harassment."

Dumping the armful of envelopes into the wastepaper basket that was by the door, she left his office without saying another word.

* * *

"He's wrong. Wrong." Buffy repeated the words like a mantra as she washed and prepared some vegetables for dinner. There was no truth in anything Angel had said. None.

Until a week ago, when Angel had started sending her the notes and messages, there had been no doubts, no questions, no worries that Spike might be cheating on her.

Angel was wrong. No doubt about it.

* * *

At ten past eight, when Spike was two hours late coming home to their tiny flat, and the chicken dinner she had prepared had gone cold on the kitchen table, Buffy began to wonder if perhaps there was some truth in what Angel had said.

As she looked back, her mind threw forward other instances over the last few months–things she hadn't even considered at the time, but that now had a negative slant in light of Angel's notes. Missed dinners, secretive phone calls and a general evasiveness.

He locked his study, now.

Kept a password on his computer.

Tiny, insignificant things. And she couldn't help but wonder.

* * *

Buffy tried to keep her mind off things by settling down in front of the television, a re-run of Friends playing on low volume. She had just about dozed off when she heard the front door click open and the heavy tread of Spike's boots on the hallway carpet.

"Buffy, love?"

She sat up, putting Chandler and Joey on mute. "In here."

Moments later, Spike appeared in the doorway, cheeks flushed and the tips of his hair sparkling under the hall light. He was grinning. "You look outside, pet? First snow."

Oh. So that was melting snow in his hair. For a moment she had thought he'd stopped off somewhere to shower, to get the scent of another woman off–

But no, Angel was wrong.

"Buffy? You all right?"

"What?" Her gaze snapped back to her boyfriend. He looked worried. "Oh, I'm fine. Just spaced for a moment." She forced a smile. "You're late. I threw the chicken away."

"I–ah, had a meeting." Shrugging his coat off, he collapsed on the sofa next to her. "You didn't get my text?"

"No."

"Oh."

He slipped his arms around her, and Buffy automatically laid her head on his shoulder. Closing her eyes, she nestled into his neck, to breathe in the scent that was so familiar to her. There was no hint of anything unusual, no strange perfume.

For the first time that evening, she relaxed.

* * *

Buffy slid into bed, shivering against the cold. It was at times like this that she missed the warm Californian sunshine. But she'd been living in England for so long now that she knew she'd miss the overcast skies and gloomy weather if she ever went back to America.

Spike padded into the bedroom, his pyjama pants hanging low on his slim hips. He sent her a heated look, and she could see that he was already half-hard. Smiling, she drew the quilt back.

Good. Sex was good. If he wanted sex with her, it meant that he wasn't cheating. The dates on Angel's little slips of paper went back three months, and nothing had changed in their sex life. It was just as good as ever. That had to mean something.

Spike kissed her, and she responded eagerly, trying to lose herself in the sensation. Trying not to think. She was just being paranoid.

She slid her foot up and down Spike's leg, and he broke the kiss with a laugh.

"What?"

"Cold." He grinned, and kissed her nose. "Your feet are cold."

"Oh." She closed her eyes, as Spike left a trail of burning kisses down her neck and onto her breasts. "Warm me up, then."

"I'm planning to." Spike sat back, and pulled his pants off. When he was naked, she reached for him, bringing him back down on top of her. His weight was comforting, and the feel of his hard length against her sent sparks of lust shooting through her body.

Spike's hands stroked her into a frenzy, and though she had felt his touch on her a hundred, a thousand times before, it still felt new, still felt amazing. She couldn't imagine that he would touch her with such love, with such reverence, if he was having an affair.

When he entered her, she let out a cry of satisfaction. Spike moaned, and hooked one of her legs further around his waist, changing the angle, hitting her deeper, prolonging her gasps.

Every thrust stoked the fire inside of her, until she felt that she would burn if there was no release. "Please please please please, Spike. Please!"

He brought his hand between their bodies, finding her swollen clit. Buffy groaned, and pressed her nails into Spike's shoulders, her heels into the backs of his thighs.

With a loud wail, she let go, waves of pleasure crashing over her. Spike thrust against her once, twice more, and came.

"Love you, Buffy."

She felt overcome with the emotion–confusion, love and paranoia swirling around in her mind and in the pit of her stomach. She didn't know what to do. It was only when he rolled off her, that she realised she was crying.


	2. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

Buffy was getting ready to leave the office for the day, when she saw Angel approaching her desk. He had a brown envelope in his hands, and a grim look on his face.

"Buffy–"

"I don't want to hear it."

"_Buffy_. Just look, will you? This is the last I'm going to say about it." He tossed the envelope onto the desk in front of her, then shrugged. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

She stared at his back as he walked away, her eyes stinging from lack of sleep and the fight to keep tears at bay.

"You're a glutton for punishment, Summers," she muttered, as she flipped the envelope over and spilled the contents onto her desk. Her heart sank when she saw the grainy black and white photograph, and the accompanying note.

_Thursday 28th November  
Left La Piazza restaurant, 5.35 p.m. with brunette female.  
Accompanied her to area just south of Linfield Park.  
Snow reduced visibility, was able to follow. Address below._

The photo showed Spike getting into his car with another woman, a wide smile on his face and a light smirk on hers.

Buffy closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. She felt sick. With surprising calmness, she jotted down the address, then put the photograph and the note back into the envelope.

Lifting the telephone receiver took a little more work, her hands were shaking, but she managed to dial the correct number and bring it to her ear. The plastic felt cool against her hot cheek, and oddly sturdy, as though it were a lifeline.

"'Lo?"

"Hey. It's me."

"Hey, love. Everything okay?" Spike's voice was warm, normal.

"Sure. I just wondered if you'd be home for dinner." Buffy tried not to sound too bitter. "You know, since you missed it last night."

"Uh– I might be a bit late. Got a meeting."

"Right."

"You all right, pet? You sound a bit off."

"I'm fine. Just tired. I'll see you later."

"Love you."

Buffy hung up without replying.

***

Buffy came to a stop outside Spike's office building, braking carefully after almost swerving on the icy roads during the drive over. The snow had melted into an unpleasant grey slush, and the dull gloominess reflected her mood.

She wondered if she was doing the right thing. Surely it would be better–more sensible–to go home and wait for Spike, then confront him head-on. Ask him who the woman was, and what he was doing with her. She had no doubt now that Angel's dates and times and places were all meetings with the mysterious brunette.

Part of her wanted there to be some sort of rational explanation. The woman was a colleague. She was just helping him with something.

Something that required meetings in bars and restaurants and visits to somewhere just south of Linfield Park. Yeah, right.

Shaking her head, she set her gaze on the employee car park. Spike drove an old, beat-up DeSoto that he'd had imported from the States long before she met him; it would be easy to see when he left, despite the fact that it had started snowing again.

She clicked on the radio, the irony of The Beatles telling her to _Let it Be_ not lost on her, as she continued her surveillance.

***

The snow was coming down thick and fast by the time Spike's black monolith of a car pulled out onto the road, and Buffy didn't know whether to be grateful to it for making her own red Ford Fiesta more difficult to see, or whether to curse it because it made it that much harder to follow her boyfriend.

She lost sight of him shortly after turning onto a small country road. She had been following the tail lights of his car, when all of a sudden they blinked out. Buffy frowned, but kept her foot on the accelerator. She flicked her headlights to full-beam, and raised her eyebrow.

Spike had pulled over, and was standing next to his car, hands thrust deep in the pockets of his leather coat.

Buffy let out a resigned sigh, and stopped her car behind his. Moments later, Spike opened her passenger door and slid into the seat next to her. His hair was wet with snowflakes again, and Buffy found it easier to concentrate on the melting snow than on what she had to say.

"Buffy? What's going on? Is there something wrong?" He sounded confused and worried.

"Why don't you tell me?" She hated the way her voice shook.

"You were following me." Grinning sheepishly, Spike rubbed the back of his neck. "You've found out, haven't you?"

Buffy stared, not quite believing that he had asked her that with a smile on his face. Undoing her seatbelt, she twisted around to face him properly. "So you're admitting it?"

"Uh… I guess. I haven't got a clue how you found out, though." He shook his head and grinned again. "Was it Sophie? Did she tell you?"

"Her name's Sophie." Her patience was running out.

"My secretary, yeah." Spike frowned. "You don't sound very happy, love."

"Happy?" Buffy gaped. "Why the fuck would I be happy? You've just admitted to having an affair, and you want me to be happy?!" She was gripping the sides of her chair so tightly, her knuckles were white. It felt like her world was tumbling away and she couldn't do anything to stop it.

"What? Buffy, what the hell are you going on about?" Spike sounded genuinely confused, and for a moment, she faltered.

"Y-you've been cheating on me."

"The fuck I have."

"You just admitted it! You said her name was Sophie!" Buffy shouted. "And how else do you explain all the missed dinners and late nights? Angel told me all these dates of when you met up with her."

"Oh, well, if _Angel_ told you then it must be true!" Spike interrupted. "God, even after all these years, it all comes back to him, doesn't it?" He threw his hands in the air. "He never got over you, Buffy. Ever think he might be lying to try and split us up?" He was in her face now, eyes narrowed. "You know he hates me."

Buffy heard the crack in Spike's voice, and met his eyes, surprised to see them shiny with unshed tears. "He gave me an address… and a photo. I _saw_ her. Tall, massive boobs, legs up to here? You can't deny that."

"I'm not trying to!" Spike shook his head. "Fuck, I can't believe you think I'm having an affair. I thought you trusted me. I thought you loved me."

Buffy swallowed past the lump in her throat. "I do. But you're not making any sense, Spike. If you're not fucking her, then who is she? What's going on?"

Spike reached into his pocket, and pulled out a key. "You've got the address?" At her nod, he said, "Here's the key. Go and see for yourself what I've been doing."

He threw the key into her lap, and got out of the car, slamming the door behind him. Buffy stared as he got back into the DeSoto, started the engine, and drove off.

What had just happened? She sat back, and bit her lip, going over the conversation in her mind. Nothing made sense. He hadn't acted like a man having an affair; there was no guilt, no fear, just confusion and hurt.

Buffy looked at the key. It was nondescript, an ordinary key made for an ordinary Yale lock. She slipped it into her pocket, and started the engine of her car, pulling away with a determination to get to the bottom of it all.

***

Five Oakfield Drive was the last property on the quiet lane. Buffy got out of the car, and lifted the latch on the wrought iron gate, pushing it open wide enough to let her car pass through.

The tyres crunched on the gravel driveway, a security light flashing on and illuminating a beautiful house. While it was elegant and austere looking, it had a welcoming feel that Buffy immediately fell in love with.

Her stomach sank as she began to get an idea of what was really going on. She scrambled out of the car and hurried through the snow to the front door. She slid the key into the lock, and it turned easily.

The hallway had a plush carpet that she'd hate to get wet, so she slipped her wet shoes off at the 'welcome' mat. Turning the light on, she ventured further into the house.

Buffy's eyes filled with tears when she walked into the living room. It was half-decorated for Christmas, ceiling garlands fastened in the corners of the room, but not at the centre. There was a tall tree in the large bay window, undecorated save for the Christmas star at the top–_her_ Christmas star–the one her mom had sent over from Sunnydale three years earlier.

"I'm an idiot."

A pile of papers on the coffee table in front of the fireplace caught her eye. Floor plans, and pictures of the rooms in the house, undecorated and run-down. Notes in Spike's messy scrawl, months of planning, hard work, and devotion lay bare on scraps of paper.

Buffy sank down into one of the armchairs, and put her head in her hands. She had messed up, big time. Spike had done this wonderful thing for her, and she had fucked it all up.

"He's gonna hate me," she mumbled to herself, feeling in her pocket for her phone. "But he's got to admit, it did look suspicious. Right?" Finding what she'd been looking for, she dialed his number. "Still. You're a stupid, _stupid_ woman, Buffy. Bet he's not even going to answer–oh! I'm sorry!"

She heard him sigh, but he didn't say anything.

"Spike? I am so, so sorry. I can't believe I got it so wrong. I love it. The house, I mean. I can't–you–you're amazing. I love you." The words spilled out of her in a rush. She bit her lip, but let herself relax when she heard him chuckle.

"I want to stay angry at you, but I can't." His voice was deep, comforting.

"Oh, thank God." Buffy smiled. "Spike, I really am sorry. I didn't want to think… but you can understand why, right?"

"Yeah. I'd have thought the same. Although I'd have tried asking you before paranoia settled in." Buffy heard the click of the car's indicator, and then the rev of the engine. "Look, stay put. I'm coming back."

"Okay. I love you."

"Love you, too."

***

Buffy wasn't sure how to act when Spike arrived. She had spent the last fifteen minutes pacing up and down the living room, nervousness bubbling in her stomach with every step she took. She was embarrassed, and angry with herself–not to mention absolutely _livid_ with Angel–but at the same time she knew that her assumption had been a logical–if flawed–conclusion.

Hearing the crunch of tyres, she rushed out of the front door and almost collided with Spike on the doorstep. She put her hands to his chest to steady herself and looked up at him.

He still looked upset, but there was a hint of a smile on his lips. Buffy burrowed her face into his shirt, taking comfort from the closeness. She wrapped her arms around him, hugging him tightly, and relaxed when his arms went around her too.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"Me, too."

"You've got nothing to be sorry for."

"I should've known how it'd look from the outside."

"And I should have trusted you."

Spike shrugged. "Shoulda, woulda, coulda."

Buffy smiled, and leaned up to kiss him. "I love the house. Thank you."

"It's not finished yet. That–the woman–she's an interior designer. Been helping me."

"Oh." Buffy bit her lip.

"Don't say it. No more apologising. We're just gonna forget all about it, okay?"

"Okay," Buffy nodded.

Spike squeezed her hand, and then pulled her back through the front door. "What say we christen this place properly?"

Buffy slid her arms around his neck. "Sounds like a plan."

-END-


End file.
